


Lady And The Geek

by PrincexRaven



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Grell Sutcliff, F/M, Female Pronouns for Grell Sutcliff, Hickeys, Light Bondage, Lingerie, Lovebites, Mildly Dubious Consent, Slightly psychopathic Grell Sutcliff, THOSE BOOTS, Top Grell, Trans Female Character, Trans Female Grell Sutcliff, and that darned neck ribbon, because i live for that, but only at the beggining, it's not in the sex where she's terribly sadistic tho, past major character death, references to past character death, seriously she came out way more sadistic than I intended, we all know Othello is a twink, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-07-29 19:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16270919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincexRaven/pseuds/PrincexRaven
Summary: Grell has had enough of being blatantly ignored by that geeky teenage-looking Reaper in Forensics.Othello has no idea what's coming onto him.





	Lady And The Geek

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Littlest_Raindrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Littlest_Raindrop/gifts).



> Title is the same as one chapter of the manga because I thought it was very funny. Please do not critique my interpretation of Grell's gender.  
> Gifted to my dear friend Jaz because SHE MADE ME DO THIS :p Mostly headcanonned off their interactions in the manga and the fact that Othello seemed to know Undertaker before he deserted.

Grell Sutcliff was used to many things. Being jeered at, mocked, vilified, smacked, insulted, even just looked at in silence but in blatant fear. She was used to William’s disdain or Sebastian’s outright repulsion; she was bold and brazen and well aware of how ridiculous people thought her and her “delusions” sometimes. She was the Scarlet Reaper, she was the highest mark in combat since Legendary Death; she had been, even, Jack the Ripper. She was hot-tempered and reckless and could be absolutely ruthless, and she knew how she stood out amongst the mass of dreary black-and-white monochrome Reapers with her banner of crimson hair and her high heels.

The one thing Grell Sutcliff was not used to was being ignored.

And yet. And yet, that was what this manchild seemed to do to no end, not even listening to her as she spoke, and she did not have a voice that could be easily tuned out. Not even Eric had maddened her so when he cheated her and left her for another frail and tiny boyish Reaper like this one –even his scorn had been preferable, though she had well proved that, literally, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, when she’d led him and his little lover straight into the demon’s claws, when she’d stopped Will’s swift execution under the guise of mercy only to see the infinitely crueler demise they would meet at Sebastian’s commanded hands. And she had not regretted it more than she had regretted adding the blood of Angelina’s exquisite, envied body to her own red. No lover left her behind like that –no one dared _hurt her_ like that– and was unscathed. This is what many did not know, seeing her act the part of a doormat at William’s feet for the better part of a century; that she could bear being a night’s pleasure as long as you were upfront with her, but once you _lied_ to her, once you _scorned_ her, you became disposable, and what she deemed disposable did not take long to disappear. Fortune had been at the side of the patient with Eric’s betrayal, and she’d laughed at the thought of him losing what she’d been tossed aside for, and laughed even more when he descended to the depths of sin and reviled his divine name for him, leading him, by her hand, to the Devil. When Angelina had said those words _(“My beloved”_ , the wound still fresh and raw and _red_ ) she’d signed her own death sentence. She would have saved her, had she seen the slightest fondness towards her in her Record, but beware those who saw in her no more than a tool to be used, for the sword you wield will bore into your heart. Even she couldn’t explain what in Death’s name had made her seemingly invulnerable to William’s frigidness –and those who knew her better at the Dispatch also wondered how it was that the Supervisor still had his head attached to his shoulders, when she had tried to cut Legendary Death in half for the crime of a scratch to her face.

But Othello _ignored_ her, and this, in turn, made it impossible for her to ignore _him_. Because, with the exception of William T. Spears, and even if she were to lose it afterwards, when Grell Sutcliff truly wanted something, she _got_ it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Othello had a sharp, scientific mind, and an equally sharp conscience of it. Born in a dark age where dissection was a burning offense as per the laws of the Inquisition, he’d gone and done it anyways, in his endless pursuit of knowledge, and taken his own life when his experiments were discovered rather than let the Church do it. How ironic he’d always found it that the Powers That Be had decided that this mind of his was an advantage rather than a sin, and he’d been promptly whisked off to the paradise that was the Shinigami Dispatch’s Forensic Division, where he could experiment as he pleased with technology humans were centuries away from discovering. He was old enough to remember the Undertaker’s desertion, though not his original name; old enough that he didn’t remember _his own_ original name, or even why, centuries later, his coworkers had seen fit to bestow upon him (small, frail, narrow-shouldered, physically harmless, and, above all, _white_ ) the name of a tragic killer from a Shakespearean play who was tall and strong and murderous and _Black_. He supposed it was sort of a joke, something he’d never been very good at.

On the rare occasions where he was made to venture out of his laboratory for field investigation, he’d been paired with an experienced agent with excellent marks in Combat, for protection, and they usually were from the Collections Division, where the most physically fit agents normally ended up.

That’s how he met _her_.

She was young, one of the youngest agents to be promoted to Senior, and fearsomely strong; the best mark in Combat since Undertaker himself, he later learned, and she was very, very angry for some reason. He was more than a bit scared of her, especially when he saw the red hair cut so that it barely reached her shoulder-blades and her male uniform and mistakenly addressed her as “Mister”. The way she’d barked in his face that she was a woman, from the vantage point her natural height and outrageous heels provided, had granted him some insight as to that anger. She was one of those against whom the Creator had committed a grave injustice by placing her soul in a body that didn’t match –a body that she was now condemned to living in for eternity. 

And that was all the insight he ever gained on Grell Sutcliff. Normally, when he encountered a force of Nature he didn’t comprehend, he pursued the understanding of it relentlessly, no matter the risk, but in this particular case said force of nature could very well slice him into ribbons without remorse, without a second thought. And yet, at the same time, when he was absorbed in his investigations, he felt protected with her, so he contented himself with regarding her occasionally out of the corner of his eye when she wasn’t looking, measuring how her hair got steadily longer, her makeup and clothes more outrageous and bold, her aggressiveness mellowed into a shrill, pestering, carefully crafted persona that he knew hid something. He caught glimpses of that “something” –in the scandal of Jack the Ripper, seeing the seemingly invincible Scarlet Reaper broken and battered and dragged away in chains, Supervisor Spears’ shoes stained with her blood and a grimace curving the corners of his mouth unpleasantly, for example. He’d realized how she’d conducted the next investigation into missing souls; how she carefully led Slingby and Humphries to their painful deaths and away from the merciful methods of their kind, but he did not understand to what purpose, or even if Humphries had merely been collateral damage, since he was a dead man walking anyways. 

He knew she would protect him so long as he left her well enough alone, so long as he didn’t join the whispering mouths in the corridors or became a nuisance to be eliminated, and so he mostly pretended to ignore her, this crimson woman that was the only force of Nature that he could not understand nor pursue.

So, to say that he was startled when she knocked down the door of his private office with those heels of hers, one incredibly hot June day when the underground labs were the only cool place in the building, would be the understatement of his entire afterlife. She was furious, as furious as she’d been that day, when he met her and mistook her for a particularly slender man, all but yelling inches away from his face and demanding to know why he ignored her like she didn’t even exist. And, before he could explain himself, tell her the truth and hope it would save his hide, she had roughly lifted his tiny frame by the lapels of his labcoat and smashed her painted, carmine mouth against his.

Now this was an experience Othello couldn’t say he’d had, most likely not when he was alive, as he’d been around seventeen and too centered in his illicit experiments when he passed on, and definitely not now, as a Shinigami who had a limitless expanse of knowledge at his fingertips. There was too much to read, to study, to invent even, to create and destroy and see reborn, to concern himself with matters of the flesh, long dead. But when Grell Sutcliff pressed the heat of her mouth, the silk of her lips, against his, he was shocked still with wave after wave of electricity hitting every nerve in his body, its focal point the point where their mouths had met, and he could say that her warmth –her supple body pressed against his narrow chest through their clothes, her ardent kiss, her silky wet tongue prying his mouth open and exploring it– was different from the warmth of the weather, and each of those warmths was different in itself, and he wanted them all though he was no closer to understanding them than he was to understanding her. So he eagerly kissed back, lacing his long-fingered, nervous hands at the small of her back, getting them tangled in the immeasurably (and he’d never thought he’d encounter something truly immeasurable) soft, crimson threads of her hair, faintly tasting lipstick at first, then, raspberries and cream inside her mouth, when he responded to her tongue with his; and, when she dropped him, he was panting for an air he didn’t even need, wanting more of her like a starving man wants, and all that occurred for him to say was:

‘You’re right. This is not a matter that should be ignored’.

There was a satisfied gleam in Grell’s peridot eyes as she locked the door she’d kicked, as she, slowly and deliberately, removed each of her (fairly excessive) articles of clothing, until she was clad in nothing but the underbust corset that cinched her narrow waist (a shade of burgundy, trimmed in black lace, that complimented the shade of red of her hair), her underwear, black stockings and burgundy garters and those boots that were famous in the entire Dispatch, dangling her candy-striped ribbon from one slender finger finished in a pointy, manicured cherry-red fingernail.

‘You have behaved so terribly’ she purred, her knife-like teeth glinting dangerously ‘ignoring a lady so’.

He opened his mouth once, twice, but all he could manage was a rather credible impression of a goldfish as she yanked the labcoat off of his frame and rucked his t-shirt up until it came off, fluffing his dark hair even more, if possible, and then tied his wrists together with her ribbon, leaning back to examine her work as she produced a kohl pencil from seemingly thin air. Was everything endless mystery with this woman?

‘Hmm’ she sing-songed. ‘Those catlike eyes of yours will definitely look good in this’ she added, smiling wider, and held his jaw with a hand that looked brittle and delicate and was in truth as strong as iron pliers. His face was immobilized thusly as she hummed under her breath and did what appeared to be an Egyptian design on his lids and waterline. She patted his cheek, satisfied, and he wondered (once again wondering!) how he looked with his eyes painted like an actor or a whore and her red, red, red lipstick smeared on his lips, devoid of clothing on his upper body. He could feel the reactions it elicited from him, his nipples standing at attention as something else did too, and she laughed softly, but she did not seem mocking. 

She pushed him back into his chair and straddled him, sinuous and feline, that silkily wet and heated tongue exploring his neck, his chest, following the movement of his Adam’s apple, flicking against an erect and darkened nipple, the occasional nips from her teeth providing a thrilling edge of danger, dizzying in the way he’d never felt it before. She caught his nipples or random patches of skin between her plump lips and sucked, leaving livid marks that soon darkened to purple all over his ghostly white skin (and he could appreciate the difference between her paleness, creamy yet translucent like fine alabaster, rosy as if just touched by the fingers of the Dawn, and his own, almost sickly from spending too much time underground) and he let the moans that fought their way out of his chest to climb up his throat and escape his mouth. They rose in pitch and volume as she tugged his trousers down, took a moment to grin at him and tease him for his lack of underwear, and continued this treatment on his thighs. She was definitely more poetically inclined than him, he thought, as she looked him over and compared his marked-up skin to a field of puce and scarlet roses, cradled his face between her hands and kissed him again. He was quick to respond this time, instinctively seeking as much friction as he could, and she giggled against his mouth before leaving his lap and bending him over his desk with the superior strength he already knew she possessed. She took a moment’s consideration before using that strength again to flip him so he was lying on his back, her hands drawing his knees almost to his shoulders, shamefully spreading his maltreated thighs apart. The look in her glittering eyes could be described as hungry, and Othello knew what it was to feel desired for the first time.

There was a softness to her expression, however, when she asked him if he wanted her to go further and he nodded fervently, not finding the words. Her smile was kind as she produced a bottle of almond and rose oil from, apparently, the same place that the kohl pencil had come from and disappeared to.

The oil was also warm when she inserted her first finger into him, and he cried loudly at the strangeness of the sensation, but there was no pain as he was gradually stretched under her marveled gaze until he could take four of her slim fingers, and then she twisted her wrist and stars exploded behind his eyelids, even though he knew that was not possible, and she laughed again.

‘Found the spot’ she giggled, daintily stepping out of her underwear and gently pulling her fingers out. ‘Do forgive me, darling, but sometimes a lady likes to be rough…’

Othello’s only response was to submissively present his bound wrists in front of his chest and lace his scrawny legs around her waist as soon as she’d lined the head of her sex against his well-prepared entrance.

She’d said his eyes were catlike, and like a cat in heat he yowled and mewled as she buried herself within him, warm, warmer, unbearably so as she was both inside him and all around him, gathering him in her arms and covering his mouth and neck in lipstick kisses as she thrust deep inside, placing the hoop his tied arms made around her own neck as she picked up pace, and he was breathless and senseless and he could not explain any of this but, for once, it didn’t matter, because it just felt _so good_. She hit that spot within him again, his bony hips colliding with her soft, curvy ones, and he yelped and begged, unaware of the words that were leaving his mouth, as her grin grew wider and moans of pleasure slipped from between her lips as well. When she began to stroke his neglected, aching, throbbing member in turn with her thrusts, his eyes rolled white and he thought, again inexplicably, that he would die a second, glorious death like this, in her arms. Of course, it didn’t last very long until the stars that impossibly spotted his vision turned into a supernova, his whole body a single nerve stretched taut and set on fire, against all rational thought, as he spilled a copious amount of milky seed in her still-pumping fist. She kissed him again, deeper than ever, her movements jerky and erratic, and sharply bit down on his lower lip, almost piercing it, as she spilled as well, the boiling hot liquid in his insides the warmest he’d felt yet.

She waited on top of him, on top of his mess of a desk, until she stopped trembling from the aftershocks and stood, calmly redressing, the last item she picked the neck ribbon that had rubbed his wrists raw, and she placed one last kiss there as she tied it under the collar of her shirt.

‘Well, I do hope this has taught you a lesson about ignoring a lady of my standing’ she said, winking.

He simply nodded, unable to tell her that he’d never been ignoring her in the first place –that he’d never even been _able_ to ignore her in the first place.

As she left, he wondered what other _lessons_ Miss Sutcliff could have in store.


End file.
